Tag Archives: spaceship

When the presence of a flourishing, alien civilization was detected via that new high tech orbital satellite, the Christian Brothers United Church knew that they had to bring the word of God to their extraterrestrial brothers and sisters, or, if they had some sort of a different biological gender categorization, that’s fine, they’d work out the terminology later.

And since nobody knows how to raise money like a Bible-belt mega church, it didn’t take long to fund one of those private space shuttle firms to build a rocket capable of transporting them across the galaxy. The demand of willing and able space-missionaries far exceeded the supply, and so church leaders spent months evaluating potential candidates, ultimately selecting a team of twelve of the most devout Christian men and women, ready to be the first human beings to share the Good News beyond the planet Earth.

At least, that’s what they thought. No sooner had they landed on planet Taphregamragon Seven (that was what the aliens named it, not us) did they realize that maybe Jesus had already been here. There were giant crosses on top of all of the biggest buildings, and even though they hadn’t yet had an opportunity to learn the aliens’ language or alphabet, the roadside billboards were almost identical to the ones on Earth telling people to tune into AM Christian radio stations.

And sure enough, as soon as they set up their universal translation systems, all the aliens wanted to talk about was Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. The missionaries were being out-missionaried by the very people they came to missionary. To make matters worse, apparently Jesus had been to Taphregamragon Seven very recently. He told all of the aliens about how quite possibly the worst planet that he tried to save was Earth. It was all in the Taphregamragonian Bible. From the Book of Snalphlaxyngians, Chapter 3, Verse 12:

“And the Lord Jesus said, Seriously, those Earthlings were such assholes. You have no idea. I tried everything. I was peaceful. I was nice. I brought one of my friend’s brothers-in-law back from the dead. And they crucified me. Whatever, I have to love them, I mean, I’m Jesus, but I don’t have to like them, because they sucked.”

And it went on and on like that, book after book. The missionaries were hesitant at first, but after a while they had no choice but to submit to the overwhelming evidence. They’d had it wrong all along. Luckily, the aliens really did embrace the peaceful and loving message of alien Jesus, and so they didn’t try to exact revenge or anything.

Instead, they sent the missionaries back to Earth, with a new mission, to spread the real Good News back to Earth, to show humanity how the Lord’s message had been mangled and misconstrued. Enlightened, the Christonauts returned to their spaceship’s hibernation cells and prepared for the long journey back to our solar system.

Only, in a weird twist of fate, while the missionaries were headed back to Earth, Jesus tried once again to bring his message to mankind. He thought, maybe they’ve evolved. Maybe they’ve learned something in the two thousand years since he was put to death in ancient Rome. Maybe all of those Star Trek episodes about peace and tolerance from the 1960s had some sort of a lasting effect on their culture.

And so next generation Jesus grew up on modern Earth and, when he came of age, he tried to make a name for himself as a twenty-first century spiritual leader. Only, now everybody had the Internet and cell phones, and so every time Jesus tried to say something, everybody just made fun of him online. Someone even took a cell phone video of Jesus getting his hoodie caught in the subway door in New York, and everyone laughed as they watched this animated gif of him getting pulled down the platform, almost but not quite getting his sweatshirt over his head before the train sped out of the station, pulling him all the way from Steinway St. to 36th Ave. in Queens. By the time the paramedics arrived, he was barely alive, with just enough breath in his lungs to say, “Screw you guys, for real, what a bunch of jerks,” before flatlining in the back of the ambulance while it was stuck in traffic on the Grand Central Parkway on the way to Flushing Hospital.

When the space missionaries finally came back to Earth, they were ridiculed for trying to spread the message of a Jesus who, unbeknownst to them, had already come back for a second time, but one who couldn’t get through to our technology obsessed Internet addicted society. The people of Earth thought it was all a joke. They thought that the missionaries were a joke, that new Jesus was a joke, that the alien world was nothing but a stupid, stupid joke.

And so they sent a bunch of warships to conquer the planet. And they did it. The aliens were too peaceful, so they hardly offered up any fight. The whole planet had a ton of resources, and we brought them all back to Earth, where everybody who financed the pillaging got super rich. They were already rich before, but now they were even richer, just permanently consolidating all of their power. And that’s it. That’s the end.

I think I’m out of ideas. Yup. The best is behind me, everything that needs to be said, well, I’ve already said it, and that’s on top of all of the other stuff that totally didn’t need to be said, of which I’ve already said a lot. But that was that, said, done. All that’s left is to keep on going, saying anything, keep on keeping on as if I’ve got something, when really, nothing.

Like, what can I talk about, lunch? I had McDonald’s. I think I’ve already talked way too much about McDonald’s. So, yeah, I’m also drinking a cup of coffee. Nothing like a cup of hot coffee. Look, I know this is boring, and I could apologize, but what good would that do? I’ve said sorry before, it hasn’t changed anything, or added anything relevant to the discussion.

Nothing left to do but talk about how I have to go to work in a little while. Does anybody else have to work? Or is it just me? Me and all of the people that I work with. Is that it? That’s not much of a workforce. Maybe we’d make a good pro football team. Not in terms of skill or anything like that, but just getting a whole team fielded, and then backups ready. Or soccer I guess, yeah, there are a lot of people on a soccer team. But nobody ever wants to be goalie, and for some reason I find it so much more rewarding imagining all of the people I work with every day lining up to protect me from the onslaught of opposing linemen.

Because I’m definitely the quarterback in that fantasy. Whether or not my coworkers would agree with me, well, I guess they’re entitled to their own fantasies also. And since this is my fantasy, I don’t know why I’m settling for football, I can barely even throw a football. I mean, I can get it from point A to point B, or somewhere in the general vicinity of point B, but it’s never a nice throw, I’d say maybe one out of thirty times it’ll come close to that perfect spiral, the kind of smooth torpedo that everybody else in the world somehow seems to accomplish almost effortlessly. But mine are all topsy-turvy.

And that’s not even a real regulation sized football. I always thought the footballs in my parents’ garage were like pro footballs, but one time I came across an NFL sized football at the Sports Authority, and I could barely hold it with one hand. And I have giant hands. No, no more football fantasies. From here on out, I mean, I’ve got nothing to say anyway, so it’s right back to sci-fi fantasies, it’s me, I’m the captain of a gigantic spaceship, and all of those same coworkers that were defending me on the field before, this time they’re manning Ops, rushing toward battle stations or preparing the torpedoes for launch. “Ay-ay captain!” they’ll respond, sometimes just at random, like they won’t even have to necessarily wait for an order to say, “Ay-ay captain!” that’ll be something that’s encouraged on my ship, just say it whenever you feel like it.

Even my boss. Especially my boss. Maybe he’s cut out to be the boss at work, but on my ship, I’m the boss. And I’d call him boss still, but as a really ironic nickname, like, “Hey boss, remember when we were all back on Earth? How you used to be in charge? Haha. Go make sure there isn’t any space mold in between the engineering conduits.”

Or, I don’t know, that’s a lot of responsibility, managing that big of a crew. And in space. Maybe I’d prefer one of those really small boats, not tiny, but just big enough for one cabin inside, something quaint. I’d have cable still, but no Internet. Just me, the eternal ocean, and the incessant chatter of all of the twenty-four hour news channels. All of them, right-wing, left-wing, British, whatever, I’d watch a different channel every day and I’d try my best to completely alter my opinions accordingly, like not just an act, I’d see if I could really get myself to believe in whatever they were saying. I’d have plenty of time, and nobody to talk me out of it.

But then what if one of the channels started running specials, “This just in. Never, ever, ever watch another cable news channel, ever again, only us,” and even though I do my best to believe, sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t, but for whatever reason on this day I really nail it, I so thoroughly absorb that message, I’m like, yes, just this channel forever.

But wasn’t I on a ship? I don’t know. Maybe the cable is too much. And maybe it’s a submarine. Although, I’m kind of tall, so I’d need one where I’m not constantly ducking underneath all sorts of low hanging pipes. And yeah I guess you need a pretty big crew for a submarine. Maybe I could just be like a consultant, or a VIP guest, nobody could boss me around, but I wouldn’t have to worry about management. And again, lots of headroom. I’ve banged my head on pipes before, and it sucks, it really, really hurts.